Classic Poem

If I have given myself to you and you,
And if these pale hands are not virginal,
And these bright lips beneath your own, untrue,
What matters it? I do not stand or fall
By your old foolish judgments of desire.
If this were Helen's way it is not mine,
I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire,
The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.
You, so soon snared of sudden brows and breasts,
Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair;
My thoughts are kinder. You are pity's guests,
Compassion's bed you share.

It was not lust delivered me to you,
I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake.
For your strange sighing lips I did but break
Many times this bread and poured this wine anew.
My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair
Were given for heal of hurts not known to me, —
For something I could slake but could not share.
Sudden and rough and cruel I let you be,
I gave my body for what the world calls sin,
Even as for your souls the Nazarene
Gave once. Long years in pity I and He
Have served you — Jesus and the Magdalen.

As on the river in the waning light
A rust-red sail across the sunset creeps,
Torching the gloom, and slowly sinks from sight,
The blood may rise in some old face at night,
Remembering old sins before it sleeps,
So might you hence recall me, were I true
To your sad violence. Were I not free,
So me you might remember now; but you
Were no more loved by me
Than clouds at sunset, or the wild bird going
About his pleasure in the apple tree,
Or wide blown petals swelling to the bee;
No sweeter than flowers suddenly found growing
In frost-bound dells, or on the bare high hills
The gold, unlaced dew-drunken daffodils
Shouting the dawn, or the brown river flowing
Down quietly to the sea.

I knew you as I knew those happy things
Passing unwept, on wide and tranquil wings
To their own place in Nature, below, above
Transient passion with its stains and stings.
For this strange pity that you knew not of
Was neither lust nor love.

Do not repent, or pity or regret.
I do not seek your pardon, or give you mine.
Pass by, be silent, drop no tears, forget,
Return not, make no sign
When I am dead, nor turn your lips away
From Phryne's silver limbs, or Faustine's kiss.
I need no pity. No word of pity say.
I have given a new sweet name and crown to this
That served men's lust, and was Aspasia.